


We Together Make A Limb

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-14
Updated: 2006-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written post-Half Blood Prince, pre-Deathly Hallows.</p>
    </blockquote>





	We Together Make A Limb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apple_pi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/gifts).



> Written post-Half Blood Prince, pre-Deathly Hallows.

When Bill and Fleur get married, it’s on a shining summer’s day at the end of June. Transient motes of sunlight stream through the stained-glass of the church windows, splashing blue and gold and crimson and emerald across Fleur’s blindingly white gown, across the white flowers Ginny and Gabrielle carry in their arms, and catching upon the tears rolling happily down Mrs Weasley’s cheeks.

Harry’s fascinated by the stained glass. The little church is older than the Muggle St. Mary’s up on the hill; older, rougher, and less grand, but somehow more solid. The scenes in the many-coloured windows all show the same man - _St. Petroc,_ Ron told him earlier, tugging at the neck of the dress robes Fred and George claim to mildly regret buying him – flanked by a wolf.

In the main panel behind Bill, Fleur, and the Ministry notary reading from a thick scroll of parchment, the glass shows him wrapping shining chains around the heaving, writhing form of an enormous serpent. It’s not a welcome reminder, for all its beauty. Even today, Harry can’t escape.

The ceremony pauses; it’s been partly in Latin, and partly in English, with a few words thrown in which Harry can’t identify, but they resonate with the stones of the church. The notary smiles approvingly as Bill and Fleur clasp hands solemnly; the pose reminds Harry of that of the Unbreakable Vow.

But when Fleur repeats Bill’s words breathlessly, _I will take zis man to be my ’usband and ’elpmeet_ , their hands aren’t encircled by a snake of fire; instead, while they pledge to each other, the notary winds a white silk ribbon around their handclasp.

Then he mutters _Iuncto_ , and the silk becomes soft white light, slowly dimming away.

It almost hurts Harry to look at Fleur’s face, wide and bright, outshining the goblin-wrought tiara wound into her hair, or at Bill’s, beaming broadly despite the tugging of his scars.

He moves his gaze to Ron and Hermione beside him, and sees that Ron has shyly taken hold of Hermione’s hand during the bonding. Harry can’t help smiling at that; he lifts his chin, grinning, and meets Ginny’s eyes. It’s not on purpose. The corner of her mouth turns up, and they smile uncomfortably at each other for a few seconds, but then Harry remembers his resolve and looks down again.

He’s glad when Bill and Fleur sign the parchment with a flourish of scarlet ink, and the guests spill out of the little church into the sunshine, away from the snake painted on the glass. Harry bites his tongue to quell any urge to hiss.

  


~ ~ ~ 

  
Fred feels George’s steps slow, and meets his eyes. George tilts his head a fraction of an inch, and Fred catches his drift. He smiles because the sunlight is gilding George’s hair, molten red-gold, and the two adjust their step, slightly. It is unlikely that anyone watching from a distance would be able to note the change in the trajectory of their course.

Fred scans the perimeter with a quick flick of his eyes, and the twins seamlessly melt out of sight, tucked behind one of the little church’s buttresses. Fred licks his lips, waiting, and George smirks and ignores him, fishing within his robes for the battered little cardboard box they’d gotten off one of the village girls, one of those who love watching them perform their ‘magic’ tricks.

Muggle girls are quite sweet, really, endearingly so, and the one who gave them the box of smokes painted her lips with something pink and slippery that tasted like honey, and sparkled with tiny flecks of silver. Fred has no idea how Muggles manage to achieve such an effect without the help of a wand. They’re ingenious, even if their jeans are somewhat more difficult to get into than a Hogwarts uniform. Fred sighs a bit wistfully, remembering how easy it was to graze his hand up the back of Angelina’s slim brown thigh, under the excellently concealing swathes of black cloth.

George finally fishes one of those Muggle sticks out of the packet – it’s the last one, which is quite a shame, really. He lets the cardboard packet, garish and hollow, fall to the grass, casually crushing it underfoot.

Fred doesn’t like getting too worked up over Muggle innovations – he’s much too young to turn into his father yet, and he hopes, almost certainly in vain, that he’ll never be fifty and balding and with a bit of a belly – but the little sticks really are remarkable. Better than the traditional pipe, by a long shot, and they smell a sight better. They’re currently experimenting with the effects once certain charms and potions ingredients are added; it’d be an interesting line to add to their stock.

He nudges George. ‘You going to light that anytime soon?”

George smirks again, eyes sparkling like the Muggle girl’s lips, and touches the tip of his wand to the end of the cigarette. _“Incendio.”_

It starts to burn – Fred thinks that’s one of the things they ought to improve, there needs to be more spectacle involved; he can think of a few ingredients that’d give the sudden bright effect of white phosphorus, if only they could neutralise the poisonous side-effects –

George sucks on the cigarette, and Fred forgets about the properties of brilliant flares. He reaches over and plucks it neatly from George’s grip.

“Oi, wanker,” George complains, but he moistens his lips as he watches Fred take a pull, and Fred knows he isn’t annoyed by the nicking. They share everything, anyway.

Fred still doesn’t know why Angelina couldn’t understand that it’d be wrong for him to have something George didn’t; and it’s not like she was usually able to tell them apart, after all.

George’s hand starts to slide, insistent and slow, down his ribcage, so Fred lets his eyes close a little and passes him back the cig.

He’s about to lean in and brush the lick of bright hair back from his twin’s forehead when the scaled-down Sneakoscope they made themselves – small enough to hang from an earring, or be set in a clasp or buckle, but they can’t officially start producing them because Uskglass’s OddBodds still holds the patent – starts to sound, shrill and insistent, from their cufflinks.

They have enough of an advance warning to step apart hastily, robes swaying, before Harry rounds the corner, and draws near, brows furrowed. He’s worn that set, serious look since the night the Death Eaters entered Hogwarts, and George hastily drops the cigarette to the grass. Its light perishes under his heel.

Fred’s glad for the discreet sweep of his elegantly tailored dress robes.

“Hi, Fred. Hi, George,” Harry says, and he still finds it disconcerting not to have that greeting accompanied by a grin, just a quick jerk of the head. “I’ve been looking for you. Ginny said I might find you around here.’

Fred can feel George suppressing the urge to frown and exchange glances, because it’s all he can do not to, either. “She’s a bit nosy, Gin,” Fred forces out, with hollow joviality.

“Our little sister keeping tabs on us?” George asks, and Fred thinks he can pull off the casual, breezy tone better than he himself does.

“I don’t know, George,” Harry shrugs, and then his voice goes all quiet and urgent. "Look, I need to talk to you two, but today’s probably not the best time.”

“Everyone’ll be leaving soon,” Fred puts in helpfully.

“The reception,” George adds. “Mum had us de-gnome the garden thoroughly when we got in last night, and the wedding cake’s up to my shoulder.”

“Right,” Harry said impatiently, shifting. “This is important, though. Will you be at your shop tomorrow, or are you going to beg off after the wedding?”

“Yeah,” Fred says, not sure why he’s agreeing. “We’ll be in.” His fantasies of the two of them flooing back to Ninety-Three Diagon Alley after the reception, and spending tomorrow lying in and sleeping off the Firewhiskey that they’d doubtless consume, among other activities, vanish into the ether, but it’s strangely hard to deny Harry what he obviously considers important.

“Good,” Harry said after an awkward pause in which George steps heavily on Fred’s foot. “Great. Thanks, you two. I’ll see you.”

  


~ ~ ~ 

  
Fred’s head the next morning as about as he expected. There’s a bit of a dull throb behind his eyes and hanging about his temples, but he can’t be arsed enough to stagger out of bed and find the hangover potion.

It’s easier, and a fair sight more pleasant, just to bury his face in George’s freckled shoulder and moan begrudgingly until George’s eyes crack open and gleam annoyed hazel back at him.

“Head,” Fred complains.

“Git,” George responds, but his arm tightens around Fred’s middle and he makes little noises that are usually indicative of an eventual gargantuan effort to get out of bed.

Fred doesn’t want to get up. They’ll have Harry on the doorstep soon, and Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes will need to be opened in another hour and a bit. Fred would be quite happy – thrilled, in fact – just to stay in their bed with his arm around George.

They’re scrupulously careful about transfiguring it back into neat twin beds every morning, because you can never be too complacent about company dropping by, particularly if you belong to a family of seven and have a mother who refuses to believe that either of you have mastered a simple Scouring Charm, and almost certainly lies awake at night fretting over the probable state of your laundry.

George gropes on the beside table, coming up with one of their wands. It doesn’t matter whose it is; the wands respond to either twin. They work with a little less flair and precision in the hands of the wrong twin, but it isn’t a hindrance with all but the most complex spells.

He presses the wandtip to Fred’s temple – gently, because Fred would swat him if it dug in, like the ache’s not bad enough already, and George knows that - and mutters a quick _Episkey_.

Fred’s head clears. “That’s done the trick, alright.” He shakes his head, grinning at the lack of pain, and wriggles down further into the bedclothes. “Excellent.”

George squinted at him. “Do me, now.”

“’Course,” Fred leers, but he takes the wand from George – the slight tingle in his fingertips tells him it’s his own – and repeats the spell, pressing his mouth messily to George’s forehead.

  


~ ~ ~

  
They’re quick, so that by the time Harry comes calling, bypassing Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes to rap the knocker politely at the entrance to their little flat, they’ve dressed and used _Tergeo_ to whisk away any betraying fluids. The bed is transfigured into two, the kettle’s whistling on the bench, and Fred is busying himself buttering toast while George shows Harry up to the flat.

“Hi,” Harry said, and it looks like he’s about to move awkwardly, like he does every time people fix their undivided attention upon him, but he seems to repress the urge, and squares his shoulders instead.

“Sit down, mate,” Fred urges.

“Take the weight off.”

It’s mostly by accident that they steer him into the overstuffed armchair which they enchanted to start bucking once someone seats themselves. They've always considered humour to be the best icebreaker, though.

Harry, however, glares and freezes the chair with a quick muttered incantation once he finds himself clinging to the armrests to stay seated. “See, that’s just the sort of thing that I’m here to talk about,” he started, looking annoyed. “Ron wanted to do it, but I thought that it’d be better if I did.”

“Spit it out, then,” Fred said, handing Harry a teacup (fortunately not a Nose-Biting one) and a plate of toast.

“Your Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder was used in the attack on the school, did you know that?” Harry asks quietly, and Fred meets George’s eyes. This is bad.

“You sell to anyone. Your Shield-charmed objects – they’re going to be very helpful, yeah, but the thing is, they’ll protect whoever purchases them, whether they’ve got a Dark Mark or not. You’re both – you’re both incredibly talented wizards, but you’re not responsible enough when it comes to what you make.”

Fred wants to tell Harry that he remembers when Harry was a squitty eleven year-old that practically came up to his kneecap, and what gives him the right to sit in their armchair looking all serious and reproving, anyway? He doesn’t, though, because the twins have spent years honing their survival instincts, and he’s not completely dense.

“I want – I’m asking you to stop selling dangerous items to the public,” Harry says in a rush. “To the Death Eaters. You’ve got a contract with the Ministry for your Shield charms line, and most of your stuff isn’t dangerous, anyway – but the stuff that is, the Darkness Powder and most of your Defence line, you have to stop.”

There’s dead silence. George stirs his tea, and the spoon rattles harshly against china.

The twins think about it.

“The Darkness Powder, yeah,” George says finally. “We never thought-”

“Never crossed our minds-”

Harry’s shoulders seem to lose a little of their tension. “Good. I’ll have to check that there’s nothing else that can be used against us, or get a couple of Aurors to. Great.”

Fred hands Harry the sugar bowl, and Harry starts to shift and stare at his lap again. Something else’s coming.

“Look, there’s something else I need you to do for me. This is more of a – of a personal favour.”

George’s eyebrows hit his hairline, and Fred can feel his own following suit. “We’re listening.”

Harry puts his tea on the table carefully and digs into his pockets, frowning. He finally pulls out a grey and ratty piece of folded paper and hands it to Fred, sinking back into the overblown armchair.

Fred unfolds it, curious. George gets up and moves to stand behind him, reading over his shoulder. His breath tickles the side of Fred’s neck.

Fred starts to frown as he deciphers the messy scrawlings and the parts that have been crossed out and amended in a neater, more precise hand.

“These are… these are bloody illegal, Harry,” George breathes.

“Dark stuff.”

Harry’s brows draw together again. Fred knew there was a reason he was wary of the new, serious Boy Who Lived. “I’m going to need those ingrediants. Hermione helped me, we’ve found some potions that are going to be really useful.”

Fred scans the list. “Well, we can get you some of this, I suppose…”

“Our contacts in Germany owe us…”

“But some of this stuff – it can’t be done.”

“And we wouldn’t, anyway. It’s Dark, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t seem too shaken by their refusal. He just sighs, tugging his jumper down to cover the bony knobble of his wrist. “I helped you two out, don’t forget. You wouldn’t have this place if I hadn’t give you the Triwizard money.”

It’s a palpable hit, but there are limits.

“And don’t think we don’t appreciate that, Harry, but we’ve helped you out too."

"Gave you the map in third year, didn’t we?"

"And anytime you want that loan paid back, say the word. We’re not running a mail-order business anymore.”

Harry picks up his teacup. “So that’s a no, then?”

“Yes,” Fred and George reply together. They don’t even need to exchange glances first; Fred can feel George’s complete agreement.

Harry looks at them, then he looks at George’s hand on Fred’s shoulder, at George’s neck. Fred remembers giving considerable attention to it with teeth and lips the night before, and his stomach suddenly feels like it wants to turn over.

“I’ve got to get back to the Burrow, then,” Harry says, “Your mum and dad’ll be expecting me for dinner. Ron and Ginny, too.” He doesn’t over-emphasise it.

On the sideboard, there’s a scrambled collection of Sneakoscope parts (if you want to find out how something works, take it apart; a lesson they learnt early on from their father), and a few that haven’t yet been reduced to components. They start to shrill, loud and wailing in the little room, but the boys ignore them.

“You’ve grown up, mate,” Fred says quietly.

Harry sighs, dark lashes brushing his cheeks as he stares down into the swirling contents of his teacup. He doesn’t meet the eyes of either twin. “Somebody has to.”


End file.
